


Three Days

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [51]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Recovery, Self-Harm, language; slash.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 05:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lancelot lives the decision he makes.





	Three Days

**Author's Note:**

> I did do some research into coming off cocaine, and while I'm sure it's not right, I used what I did for the purposes of my story.
> 
> This connects Boulevard of Broken Dreams and Awake in this series. 
> 
> I also know that no place in 2052 would use paper forms for their application, but let's just go with it for the sake of drama and atmosphere. :)
> 
> Originally posted August 2009, new edit 2018.

 

  
The first night was a shock. Even though Arthur had tried to prepare himself, even though he thought he knew what to expect and what to feel, even though he’d known Lance for years. 

Lance had been quiet as they’d driven back from Malibu in Arthur’s car; apparently someone had driven Lance to the meeting, but the other man hadn’t mentioned wanting to call anyone or wait for a ride. Arthur was glad of that actually; he didn’t want to have to deal with anyone else, and truth be told…he was still slightly unsure of the motivations Lancelot had slung so desperately at him.  A harsh taste of bile in the back of his throat signaled just how he felt about that worry, but he swallowed heavily and drove. No music, no talking, just the sound of the car and Lance’s soft breathing from the seat next to him.

The Ten flashed by them quickly; Lancelot’s home in Santa Monica not far from the exit Arthur took. He’d been there before although Lance didn’t know that – he’d only driven by surreptitiously when Lance had been gone or away for extended periods of time. Arthur flushed at the memory, but Lance didn’t seem to be surprised he didn’t have to ask for directions. 

Arthur pulled into the private street, stopping in front of Lance’s small home, and turned the engine off. He faced forward for a moment, his hands correctly on ten and two; he had to peel his fingers off the steering wheel when Lance made a sound. Turning to face him, Arthur’s eyes traveled over Lance’s expressive face – which seemed to be impassive and shuttered now.  “I just need a few things,” Lance said at last, woodenly, his normally rich and melodic voice stiff and flat. Arthur unlocked his door and got out when the other man did. Lance stared at him briefly, then shrugged minutely, his jacket gaping enough for Arthur to once again see the butt of his gun.

Arthur sucked on the insides of his cheeks and refrained from saying anything. They’d had that argument and Lance had told him _why_. Arthur tried to understand and tried to _believe_ him, but as he followed Lance through the locking gate into the quiet grounds, up the steps and into the dark house, he found himself twisting his mouth and frowning.

Lance shed his suit jacket and flung it in the direction of a hat stand; oddly enough it landed correctly and Arthur had to stifle an inappropriate laugh at the luck. He ignored the sight of Lance’s holster, and trailed after slowly, flicking on a few lights even though Lance seemed to be comfortable enough with just the street lights shining in.  He ended up in the living room; large French doors opened up onto a patio that was obviously professionally landscaped, and he sat on a leather love seat, his butt perched on the edge stiffly. The trees in the yard swayed gently in the dark, and the neon brightness from the lamps outside wavered between the green, dancing ghostlike against the black sky. He could hear noises coming from the bedroom, but he didn’t dare go in there. He’d been _away_ from Lance, away from this situation for so long he wasn’t sure how he’d react or if he’d even be of any help.

Arthur chewed on his lip and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands winding together from habit. A very old habit – one that came with stress and worry and everything else that had to do with Lance and what Lance made Arthur feel.  He stared out the glass doors and only noticed time had passed when the noises from the bedroom ceased. Cocking his head, he listened; no, nothing. He got up and crossed to the hallway, drumming his fingers on his leg and wondering what was going on.

The walls of the hall were bare where most people would normally have family photos or knickknacks. Arthur thought that slightly odd, but he didn’t know how often Lance was actually _here_ , so he shrugged and took a few steps to the cracked door of the bedroom.  He knocked politely and pushed the thing open, sticking his head in. He hoped Lancelot was finished changing his clothes – he shut his eyes briefly as he entered the room.

Empty.

“Lance?” he said, concern in his tone even though the voice was soft and calm. He flicked on a lamp by the bed and was startled by how large and how blank the space was. Everything was beautiful and matched and cared for, but … no pictures, no art on the walls, no books, no clothing strewn about – Arthur had to do a double take at that – nothing but a large tv and a mirrored vanity dresser.

A noise drew Arthur’s attention, and he turned his head in the direction of what must be the master bath. A light shone out from under the slightly open door, so he walked to it and pushed it open, this time not worrying about Lance’s state of dress or what he’d find. He merely knew that was where the other man was and Arthur wasn’t about to leave him alone now. No matter how awkward or strange _he_ felt, this was his best friend – and so much more, so much – and he suddenly was worried and filled with guilt and self doubt and by God but he’d missed Lance _so_ much –

Lance was there all right; he was standing at the sink in a black tshirt and underwear – _when had he gotten so thin?_ \- and he was staring at a small, crinkled paper that he held in his hands. His face was pinched and the skin around his nose was red and runny. Arthur took a few steps and gently touched his shoulder.

“Do you need help?”

“Where is this?”

Arthur looked from Lancelot’s face to the thing he held. It was a photograph of the two of them, and Arthur’s brows descended in hurt and worry as he looked at the picture and then at Lance.

Lance wiped his nose and sniffled loudly. “I can remember taking this, but I can’t seem to remember where it was or what it was for. I'm not sleeping too well,” he tossed out, apparently by way of explanation. He laughed shakily and wiped his nose again. “Product of my very important job,” he added, the dry, brittle tone making Arthur’s hands stop in midair; he’d been going for the picture in Lance’s grip.  Shaking his head minutely, Arthur finished his motion and took the slick paper. “For a family function of yours,” he said softly. “Well, not this one. You couldn’t go and your father asked you to have a picture taken…we did this as an afterthought. In university. One of your friends took them.”

A light seemed to go on behind Lancelot’s bloodshot eyes; he nodded. “That skinny girl! The one with all the tattoos. Teresa.” He laughed again but this time it was genuine. Arthur’s chest squeezed but he smiled tentatively at the other man. Lance leaned forward, resting his hands on the porcelain. He turned his head and smiled at Arthur as he sucked his lower lip between his teeth. “Funny how time flies. I knew you’d remember.” The smile slowly faded as he watched Arthur, who stood helplessly caught in Lance’s gaze; the dark eyes finally wandered to the crumpled picture that Arthur held.

“I like it,” he added, murmuring. “That was a good day.” Arthur nodded and lay the picture down on the sink. “Lance,” he answered quietly. “You can have another good day. More than one.”  He stepped closer to Lance, being careful not to stomp on his bare toes. Lance rubbed a palm on the edge of his boxer briefs quickly and stared at Arthur – Arthur blinked rapidly and had to swallow a few times at the sight of the large, liquid cocoa colored eyes that burned into him.

“You can do this. I will help you. I swear it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw their reflections in the large mirror. Lance faced the sink still, and Arthur leaned his right hip on the countertop, his body close to the other man’s, the bright light in the bathroom bleaching their faces to mere skin and bone hollows.  Lance turned his head – Arthur could swear he heard creaking – and looked at Arthur, and the skull became apparent. The long fingers held on to the marble, although Arthur could see a slight trembling in them. He edged closer and put his hand over Lance’s nervous right one, stroking the cold skin gently and keeping his mouth shut.

Lance made a sound that could have either been a laugh or a cough or a death rattle, his teeth white and glistening in the neon lighting. His dry eyes drifted shut; Arthur reminded again just how blanched and tired he looked. The dark rings under his long lashes were puffy and bruised seeming and his nose continued to run.

Lance lifted his left hand to his nose and wiped and sniffed. Arthur moved his free hand slowly to Lance’s back, and rested it over the other man’s spine, the heat from Lance’s body surprising and all too familiar.

“I can’t.”

Arthur rolled his lips inward and slid the hand on Lance’s back around his torso completely. He gripped at the hand he was soothing and leaned closer until his thigh was touching Lancelot’s.

“You can.”

He breathed the two words quietly – but with the strength of a conviction he hadn’t felt since the day he’d woken up and realized he was in love with Lancelot. He slowly drew his fingertips over the other man’s shirt until they found their way under the thin material; Arthur pressed his hand against Lancelot’s side and was relieved to find the flesh there warmer than his chilled fingers.  Lance’s head was lowered and he opened his eyes to stare at their hands. He shook his head slowly and Arthur saw a few drops of moisture fall onto the long digits that dug into the counter with a strength that belied their appearance; his right hand wove between Lance’s fingers and covered the wetness.

Arthur sighed softly – it was a relief to see Lance showing some feeling – and Lance raised his head to stare at his face. “I need you.”

“I know you do, Lance,” Arthur answered, his tone deep and serious and the feeling and truth of it rumbled through him and hopefully into Lancelot as well. “I’m here. You have me.”

A shiver spun through the other man’s frame and Arthur let go of Lance’s hand, forcibly turning him. Both Arthur’s hands slid around Lance’s back and locked into place, but the grip was soft and gentle and reassuring. _Not_ harsh and not scary. Not possessive.   
Not something Lancelot couldn’t handle right then.  The dark eyes were bloodshot again, and Lance stepped forward and melded into Arthur’s grasp, his thin clothing and slender body almost disappearing between Arthur’s broad shoulders. He took in a deep breath and shuddered violently enough to shake them both.

“Flush the toilet, please.”

Arthur’s expression was a picture of confusion; he lifted his head and cocked it. “What?”  
  
“Just do it. Please.”

Not as used to Lancelot’s odd requests as he had been, Arthur frowned as he reached for the handle. He pushed it down and then returned his hand to Lance’s back. The other man barked a laugh and buried his face in Arthur’s neck. “Thank you.”

The noise of water rushing covered the tears that finally came from the dried husk that had been his vibrant friend not too long ago, and Arthur finally understood as he clutched Lancelot to him as the other man whimpered and cried silently.

The vials that had been sitting on the edge of the shower fell with a quiet tinkling that reminded Arthur of a silver necklace that Guinevere had worn when they were in high school.  
  
_Faery bells. Mom gave them to me. Supposed to bring good luck._

_It’s nice._

_It’s just a piece of metal._

*

A week later Lancelot was sitting on Arthur’s couch, a blanket wrapped around him as he flicked between channels with amazing speed. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose, but when he realized what he was doing he forcibly lowered his hand and took a small amount of cookies from the bowl Arthur had left for him. He jammed them into his mouth and chewed quickly so he wouldn’t get the idea to spit them our or to not eat them.  After a few moments the sugar hit and he felt a little better; he hated Oreos but that’s what was available, and he didn't like drinking plain milk. He paid attention to the tv for a while but then his brain wandered, and he got up and meandered through Arthur’s living room.

The loft was lovely and perfect and so very pristine. Lancelot thought Arthur would have made the place his ‘own’ by now; granted, it had been a while since he’d been here for any length of time, but it made him feel strange to think Arthur still hadn’t done anything to personalize it much beyond the Van Gogh and the lamps from his mother and the furniture. However, if Arthur’s life as a cop went as it had this past week all the time…Lance wasn’t sure if he really was making a good decision. Reaching out a finger, he touched one of Arthur’s old lamps, remembering how it had looked in their apartment, before _this_ and before things had changed.

He barked a laugh and then startled at the echo it produced in the drafty loft. Shivering, he returned to the couch and rubbed his thighs; perhaps he should have worn long pants. His skin was beginning to goose bump and yet his chest and forehead, when he dragged a hand over them, felt oddly clammy.  Lance chewed on his lips as he thought; he jiggled his leg back and forth and kicked the blanket he’d put over himself off. Didn’t Arthur have a small workout room here? Maybe if he exercised – burned off some of the anxiety? Getting up, he tossed the remote to the couch and made a beeline for the doors next to the laundry.

Pushing them open, he sighed with relief. A full size punching bag hung from the ceiling, and a gleaming elliptical machine filled one corner of the utilitarian room. Lance grinned and approached the bag; it had been a while since he’d done this, but how could you possibly forget? Twisting his neck back and forth, he removed his tee shirt and swung his arms as he regarded the well made leather.

Looking around, he found an old mp3 player sitting next to a pile of jump ropes and turned it on – surprised when an ancient song by Disturbed came out of the speakers. His brows descended briefly but gradually his attention was drawn again by the punching bag. He circled it, his bare feet dancing slowly on the hardwood floor, his hands draw up to his sides in tight fists.

_Whump._

_Whump. Whump. Whump. Whumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhump._

Soon his fingers were a blur, his face a taut mask of angular misery as he punched and punched and punched the soft leather. Sweat began to drip down his forehead and spine; his knee length shorts feeling too hot as his eyes focused on the bag and the slap of his fists.  
  
_You are a failure of a son._

He gritted his teeth and sped up.

_I can’t do this, Arthur! I have to go._

_Lancelot!_

_…I have to go._

The bag creaked as it rocked back and forth on its hanger. Lance snarled as his pupils contracted to pinpricks; his skin becoming shiny and chilled as the cold sweat burned his flesh.

_I don’t want to hurt…_

_You are the last person that would hurt me._

The song on the player picked up, and the music rattled through the room at top volume – Lance grunting each time his fists hit the leather in front of him. He pulled back with his right arm, and swung with a violence he didn’t know he had in him –

_This is my house._

_You made the decision without even asking me! Without telling me! God. Do you even love me at all?_

_You do too know what it means! Answer me, damn it!_

_What if you had left me alone?_

_Why’d you lie to Roland about us, Lance?_

_I know that I love you._

_Yeah? Well, apparently that’s not enough._

_Not enough. Not enough. Not even close._

_Get out._

A noise that made no sense poured out of Lancelot’s wide open mouth and his fists blurred in front of his face, the leather bag too clean and pretty and unused and he just couldn’t think and it was –

_Wham_

He leaned forward and slammed his head into the bag, and again, and again and again and again.

He heard a weird cracking but slapped the palms of his hands into the leather when his face began to really hurt, kept slapping and punching even when he felt the dripping of wetness from his nose. That was nothing new, so he just spat to the side and _hit_.  He screamed and laughed and continued to beat at the thing, seeing black and red and spots in front of his eyes as the world tunneled to one tiny speck of confused colors.  He screamed until his throat was raw and the sound of his voice overtook the shriek of music that thundered through his ears and made the pain in nose and his hands disappear.

An odd vibrating suddenly shook his arms, and he tried to keep punching, but something dragged him away from the bag and the loud music was gone and he was staring at a face he ought to know but couldn’t place except for the pain and loss associated with it.  An excruciating, throbbing sob welled in his chest and threatened to explode from his lips but he clamped down on the emotion and blinked rapidly until the face in front of him swam back into focus clearly.

Muffled words, hands on his arms, fingers clutching and grabbing and pulling him to the kitchen, the swinging of the exercise room doors loud and painful. He stared at them as he was dragged away – he knew he wasn’t finished there yet, but the hands that gripped him were insistent. 

The water on his face was cold and shocking, and he sputtered and cursed and flailed as blood ran from his nose and coated his already bruised and dirty chest. He shoved back from the stainless steel sink and swung his fists again and when they connected with something solid, he laughed until the tears streamed from his eyes and he couldn’t breathe. Sinking to the floor, he folded his legs under him and wrapped his fingers in the material of his shorts and refused to open his lids.

After a few moments he felt a soft cloth wipe under his nose, but he found when he attempted to raise his hands to push the other person away, he didn’t want to. So he allowed the ministrations and only whimpered once when peroxide was applied to the cut he didn’t realize he had.

He was just beginning to be able to breathe again when the world turned upside down and he felt his chest strike someone’s back. He feebly struggled but fuck, when had he gotten so tired?

The stairs flashed by when he cracked an eye open, but he quickly shut them when he felt the urge to vomit rise – and shit –

“Put me down!”

Too late.

He swallowed heavily and choked and it came back up again and he puked helplessly onto the soft carpet, the acid burning his esophagus and the tears burning his eyes and he couldn’t even think anymore…and _fuck stop puking_

“…it’s okay.”

Lance lay on the floor and sobbed and ached and the touch of cool hands on his fevered brow was the only anchor to finding his way out of the way too deep ocean.

Despite not wanting to, despite really wanting the peace of just not thinking or being or feeling, he gradually opened his eyes and stared blearily at the worried and creased face that hovered over him, the lines on the other person’s forehead as cavernous and wide as the Grand Canyon.

“It’s okay, Lancelot. I’ve got you, I promise.”

Lance turned his head slowly and pushed himself shakily to a sitting position. He leaned his bare back against the wall, and shut his eyes again, even though he desperately wanted to watch Arthur’s face.

“Come on, Lance.  It's okay.  I will help you.  Come on, get up.  I have you, I promise.”

He allowed himself to be pulled up and walked, trembling and sweating, the rest of the way to the bedroom. Arthur sat him down on the bed and after pushing a few pillows into place settled him against them.  Lance stuck his feet under the covers and tugged another pillow to his chest. Arthur sat next to him for a moment and touched his jaw with a gentle finger.

“I’ll be right back, okay? Just rest. Call out if you need me.” He stood and Lance could hear the popping in his spine; it sounded like dry shot being fired out of an old pistol.  Nodding hurt so he made an agreeing noise. “Do you want the light on?” Arthur asked him, and Lance bit his lip when he tried to make a motion with his head. “Uh uh,” he murmured and cleared his throat. “Can I have some water?”

Arthur’s lined skin became whiter than Lance had ever seen, and within just a moment the other man had returned with a glass of clear liquid that Lance sipped gingerly. Arthur stood by the bed, his hands knitted, but he broke them apart when Lance’s bloodshot eyes focused on them.

“Just give me ten minutes. I’ll be right back.”

This time Lance nodded once and Arthur turned his back and left the room.

When Lance opened his eyes again, Arthur was watching him with a hooded gaze, worry etched into his face like he’d been born with it there. Sighing, Lance reached out a hand and Arthur took it before the trembling could get too bad – the warm fingers that cupped his own cold ones were welcoming and calming and Lance had to forcibly stop himself from staring at their joined digits.  He could have easily fallen into the idea of the patterns of their skin, the difference in how tan Arthur was and how white he was, the way Arthur’s fingers seemed to grow into his. A gentle squeeze made him clear his raw throat and meet Arthur’s green eyes.

“How’s your stomach?”

Twisting his mouth, Lancelot blinked heavily and shrugged. He was tired of talking about himself and his issues – not that he had discussed them much, but he felt if he started, he’d rapidly grow tired of it and he didn’t want to force that on Arthur – so he tried to remain mum.

“Do you want some ginger ale? Or…I got us some rice and chicken soup from that Greek place you like. I could bring it up here – do you like that soup still?”  Arthur’s voice was hesitant and soft, and the slight tremor in it made Lance’s brows pull together. Of course he still liked the Greek place; Arthur had been the one to take him there, and he only ate that soup when he was sick.

“Soup sounds good,” he answered finally, and the smile that touched at the corners of Arthur’s mouth was just enough to erase most of the guilt and anger Lance felt about what had happened on the stairs earlier. He could also include the stuff he’d done in the exercise room, but then he’d have to include anything he’d done that was stupid and ‘not like him’ over the past few years, so he thought he’d skip that.  Until he was alone and could examine just what he’d done and how he’d fucked up so very hard.

He made to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but Arthur shoved him none too gently back against the pillow set up and stood over him, a slight frown on his face. “I’ll bring it up here, Lance. I don’t want you to get out of this bed except to brush your teeth or piss, you hear me?”

Lance rolled his eyes; that made the frown pass. Arthur let a small laugh echo briefly in the room, and then raised a finger. “Be right back.”

Figuring it would take him more than just a minute, Lancelot rose slowly from the bed, his entire body aching and sore, the second that Arthur’s back was out of view. He hobbled into the bathroom and instead of flicking the overhead light switch, he turned on the small night light by the door.  He stared at himself in the mirror until Arthur was suddenly there, soup in hand.

“Sorry,” Lance said, starting. Hadn’t Arthur just gone downstairs? 

He turned off the night light and shuffled back to the bed and sat obediently, not wanting to do anything else that would cause the strange, tight expression he’d just seen on Arthur’s face to come back. He pushed back against the pillows and took the little tray Arthur gave him, and then smiled when the soup was placed in front of him.

“I haven’t had this in a while,” he said as he turned his head to look at Arthur, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with his own bowl of food. Arthur didn’t have a napkin or a drink or a fancy tray, though; he just had his take out bowl and his spoon and his watchful, waiting expression that made Lancelot want to throw the Fiestaware bowl his soup was in through the window.  Anything to get rid of that look.

Arthur watched him, and finally Lance sighed heavily and took up a giant spoonful of the soup and shoved it somewhat violently into his mouth. He winced at the heat but swallowed. “Happy?”

Arthur picked up his spoon and had some as well, and the two men traded bites and stares and Lance did not speak again as they slowly ate and wondered what the hell to say next.

*

Arthur opened the loft door, his keys in one hand and briefcase in the other. The leather thing felt extra weighty this evening, and although he knew why, he thought it was perhaps a bit idiotic of him to put that much importance in a few pieces of paper.  Noise came from the living room, and Arthur relocked the door before hanging his keys on the holder by the phone cubby and walked toward the sound. He carried his case still and bit his lip as he tried to think of the right words to say to make this as important as he couldn’t help but think it was.

Lance was sitting on the couch, head in his hand as he clicked through the channels at an amazing speed. Arthur wondered how the other man could even see what was on, but then shrugged to himself and forgot it when Lance turned to greet him.  Arthur set his briefcase down and came around the edge of the couch; he sat next to Lance and touched the fading bruise on Lance’s forehead, then the cut that was still healing – the scar that would run through his eyebrow would cause some great stories.

“Hi,” Lance said, his long lashes fluttering as if he had a hard time keeping his eyes open. He raised a hand and cupped Arthur’s as it rested against his cheek. “Did you get them?”

Arthur took a minute to answer. He looked Lancelot over from head to toe; the other man was wan and tired seeming as he had been since the drugs had been gone from his life, but his eyes sparkled and his lips smiled more easily than they had in months. Years, probably. His black sweater and jeans hung on him but when he moved, he did not resemble the walking skeleton that Arthur had seen in the fancy suit in Malibu.

Arthur let the other man lay his legs over Arthur’s; he touched Lance’s bare toes and squeezed his foot. “Yeah, I did.” He met Lance’s gaze and saw minute fear pass through the brown irises, but it was gone faster than Arthur could even open his mouth to ask.

“Let me have them, Arthur,” Lance said, and Arthur nodded, rising from his surprisingly comfortable spot on the couch – it had been while since he’d just touched the other man and felt good, and by God he’d missed it – and picked up his briefcase.  He brought it to Lance and removed the carbon copy papers that looked the same as they did when he’d filled them out, and shutting his case, handed Lance the forms and a pen. He set the case on the other man’s legs as a portable desk and stood by the couch, not wanting to crowd Lance, but wanting to witness this with his own eyes – and wanting to be there should Lance falter or freak out.

Unlike what Arthur had expected, Lance bent his curly head to his task and within fifteen silent minutes had finished his application for the Los Angeles Police Department Academy.

He handed Arthur the pen and case but held on to the forms for a moment, his eyes scanning the ink covered pages. Arthur bit his lip and waited, his suit and work shoes never feeling more uncomfortable.  Lance lifted a hand and rubbed tentatively at his nose, the break at the top still healing. It would have a nice knot in it now, and Arthur took an unconscious step forward as he watched the long fingers wipe at non-existent snot. Maybe it was just a reaction – something Lance was used to doing.

Or maybe it was a sign of –

_Arthur, let it go._

“Here,” Lance said, standing. He held out the forms and Arthur took them, afraid to wait for too long. He put them inside his case and shut it, the click of the latches sounding loud and final to his ears, his fingers lingering on the gold embossed _AC_ that marked the thing as his.  He looked up to find Lance standing by the sliding glass door, arms crossed defensively over his slender chest, forehead resting against the glass as his breath steamed it up from the inside.  Arthur shed his jacket and tie and removed his fancy shoes, sighing quietly as he crossed to where Lance was. He stopped next to the other man and stared out at the deck, having no possible clue what Lance could be thinking of.

Well, he had one idea, but he did not want to entertain it, for he feared if he did it would come to pass and he could _not_ face the thought of Lance being sorry for what he was about to do.

Lance suddenly moved and opened the door and went out. Arthur stood still for a minute, the humidity of the air hitting him heavily, but then he too went outside and shut the sliding glass behind him. He followed Lance to the bench on the deck and sat next to him. Both men were barefoot and Arthur wiggled his toes against the warmth of the wood left over from the heat of the day, and Lance did the same after a moment.

“You did the right thing,” Arthur said. Lance nodded and rubbed at his healing cut, ignoring the pain it must cause him. “I’m not afraid,” he answered, voice full of conviction. He licked his lips and stared at the night sky, the smog from the afternoon making the stars obscure and hazy.  Arthur laid his hand on Lance’s knee when the other man bent his legs, and Lance took it up in his right one. Arthur waited for a short time and then slid over so his body was flush to Lance’s, and Lance leaned against Arthur’s chest, his body deflating and soft and only shaking for a minute.

Dropping his left arm over Lancelot’s shoulders, Arthur breathed in the other man’s scent – the same, but not – and pressed a kiss to the curly hair by Lance’s temple. “Everything will be okay,” he whispered, and Lance made a sound that could have been a sigh, a whimper, or the noise of defeat. He kept a tight hold on Arthur’s hand and nodded.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

Arthur did, and Lancelot relaxed a little bit more, his skin warm against Arthur’s lips.

Arthur breathed in again, and he had a brief thought that things would be the hardest they’d ever been for Lance shortly – but when he felt the wetness against his chest, he closed his eyes and amended that idea.

Lance could do this; he would. And it would be hard, but it was what was worthy of him and the _right_ thing. It would be really hard.  But it would be the right thing. The _right_ and honorable thing. Worthy of what Arthur saw and loved with every bit of his flesh and soul in Lancelot.

He’d help him. And it would work. It would be hard, but they could do it together, and everything would damn well be okay.  That was the only way things could be.

When Arthur looked up, the stars were covered in clouds, and the sky was black and thick and he tightened his hold on Lancelot and kept his eyes open and wound their fingers together until he could not see a single space between them.

~


End file.
